Number Five
by ZetaFox
Summary: One on one. In any form of combat, one on one is a true test of skill. Aerial combat is no exception.Inspired by Ace Combat 4. No real ties to the story.


"Bandit on the nose!" Hoser called over to com, "he's at mach one, closing fast!"

"No joy," Tarent said flatly, gazing through the foreword windscreen of the F-15E. The HUD scrolled numbers up and down, tiny readouts blinked and displayed huge amounts of data. A silver band of clouds was out in front of them, the enemy fighter was probably among them.

"Eagle-Three-Three to Ramrod-Six-Two-Six. Bandit confirmed, you are weapons free and clear to engage, take him out, boys." Micheal, their AWACS controller, said over the radio.

They were over the ocean, it stretched out below them like a massive black and blue carpet. Tiny whitecaps dotted its surface, stirred up by the strong winds. Tarent stared intently foreword through the HUD. A small, green square suddenly appeared, it drifted around the screen, then locked onto a point in the clouds. The bandit. Tiny beeps began to sound in his helmet speakers, the enemy's radar pinging off his plane. Tarent watched the distance between the two aircraft scroll down with startling speed. He reached down with his left hand and flipped a red safety cover off of a toggle switch, then flicked the switch itself.

"Weapons hot," He said, bringing his hand back up to the throttle block.

The sun sat directly above them, a massive golden sphere that sent harsh light down into the cockpit. The clouds they were heading towards were the leading edges of a massive storm front, it would turn the sea into a rolling mess in a few hours. _One more reason not to get shot down,_ he thought bitterly. The distance ticked down. Tarent wanted to take him head on, no, he _had_ to take him head on. If he turned away now the enemy fighter would latch onto his tail.

The clouds became a massive wall that filled his vision. The enemy fighter burst from them a millisecond later, Tarent sized him up at a glance. It was a MiG-29, painted standard gray, but with some strange markings. The leading edges of his wings, tails, and elevators were painted in dark blue. Missiles hung from underneath his wings, but no bombs. The fighter was set for air-to-air only. Tarent tracked it with his eyes as it blurred past, a muffled roar was all he heard. The fighter pulled steeply upwards, drawing a pair of thin contrails from its wingtips. The sun caught them and made them glow gold; Tarent looked back to his HUD. He punched the throttles foreword and then shoved the stick foreword as well.

"Keep an eye on him, Hoser!" Tarent called as the F-15E nosed over into a steep dive. The fight was on. "Ramrod-Six-Two-Six to Eagle-Three-Three. We are engaging the enemy fighter." Tarent reported, eyeing his quickly-decreasing altitude readout.

"He's still up there," Hoser said, craning his neck back to look over his shoulder. Tarent waited until they passed through two-thousand feet to pull up. He held the stick back, grunting against the G-forces as his fighters nose swung skyward again. The enemy had altitude, Tarent had speed. Both were essential in air-to-air combat, but one could rarely have both. Speed translated into altitude, and altitude translated into speed, if you had both, however, then your chances of winning were that much higher.

"Where is he, Hoser?" Tarent said, taking a look over his left shoulder.

"Break right, break right!" Hoser yelled.

Tarent obeyed, slamming the stick to the right and pulling back. The F-15E responded by going into a sharp right turn. Water vapor bled from the leading edges of its wings. A line of white-hot tracers flashed by the left side of Tarent's cockpit, dangerously close. He rolled the fighter to the right until its right bank was reversed into a left bank, then pulled back on the stick again, cutting across the MiG's path.

"Was that a gun pass?" Tarent asked, watching the MiG meet his turn over his left shoulder.

"Yeah, this guy has some balls," Hoser said weakly.

This guy liked to play in the vertical. Fine, Tarent would play his game for the time being. He nudged the throttle foreword a bit more, bringing the afterburner into play. The F-15E leapt foreword, pressing Tarent back into the ejection seat. He hauled back on the stick again, dragging his fighter's nose upwards until it was pointed directly into the sun.

"He's following," Hoser said.

Tarent grinned inside his oxygen mask. He had far more speed than the MiG; his climb would continue, while the MiG stalled out. _That's your first and last mistake, buddy,_ Tarent thought, selecting an AIM-9 Sidewinder missile. The F-15E rocketed through five-thousand feet, riding on the gold flames of it's afterburners. The MiG followed, but began to yaw to the left as it bled off speed. The enemy pilot applied some right rudder and straightened the aircraft out. A warbling tone suddenly came through Tarent's helmet speakers.

"Shit," he whispered.

"He has radar lock," Hoser said, pausing, "Missile in the air," he said louder. The tone changed from a warbling, unstable one into a solid one as the missile acquired the F-15E. Tarent pushed as hard as he could on the left rudder pedal, throwing the stick to the left as well. The F-15E swung slowly to the left, at the climax of its climb. Tarent had no speed to work with, not until he got the fighter pointed back down towards the ocean. Hoser punched the chaff button three times, ejecting three canisters of the metal strips into the air behind the fighter. The nose of the F-15E dropped back towards the water, Tarent kept the throttle at maximum. The chaff canisters popped open, scattering thousands of glittering metal strips into the air. Tarent spotted the missile, it bored up towards him, riding at the tip of a long, silver-gray smoke trail. It seemed to be heading right for his face, refusing to be fooled by the chaff.

"More chaff!" Tarent yelled, throwing the fighter into a violent right turn. Hoser hit the chaff button three more times, a tiny _thump_ resonated through the fighter with each press. An inky blackness began to appear at the edges of Tarent's vision as the G-forces began to rob him of consciousness. He grunted and tightened every muscle in the lower half of his body, forcing more blood up to his head. The missile swerved away from the F-15E, now tracking the chaff. Tarent let off of the stick, bringing the throttles back out of afterburner, scanning the sky for the MiG. The darkness retreated back out of his vision, no longer threatening his ability to control his aircraft.

"He's at five O' clock low, climbing up to us," Hoser said, examining his radar screen. The warbling tone returned. "He's got lock again!" Hoser said. Tarent wasn't going to have any of that, he rolled inverted and dove. He saw water, then the horizon, then the cloud filled sky. The MiG was ahead and to the right, coming towards him and across his path. Tarent could see the blue-helmeted pilot staring at him. He swung into a left turn as the MiG flashed past his left shoulder. The F-15E trembled as it sliced through the MiG's jet wash; Tarent pulled harder into the turn. _Don't lose him, don't lose him._ Tarent told himself, straining his neck to track the MiG. They were in a turning battle now.

The MiG was directly above Tarent as he turned, it matched his turn perfectly and they swirled about the sky. Tarent stared at the enemy pilot, and the pilot stared back. Tarent forgot about everything, everything but the MiG he was staring at. He didn't even hear Hoser grunting against the G-forces in the back seat. Darkness again advanced on Tarent's vision, starting at its corners and moving slowly inwards. His hair was sweat-soaked inside of his helmet, small drops of it ran down his face. He sucked in the oxygen provided by his mask in long, deep breaths.

The view over the nose of Tarent's fighter changed from clouds, to clear sky, and back to clouds. His gaze remained locked on the MiG, everything else blurred out of focus. Tunnel vision; he was concentrating on one target, and one target only. It was safe to do in this case, as he had Micheal up in the AWACS watching out for him. The MiG suddenly flicked out of its turn, corkscrewing to the right and away. Tarent turned and slid onto his tail, giving chase. The MiG suddenly vanished. It had flown into the clouds, Tarent hadn't even noticed that they'd been drifting closer and closer to them. He flew into them as well, and was swallowed up by their silver-gray embrace.

"I've lost him on radar," Hoser said, reminding Tarent that he was back behind him.

"Roger, we're not going to find him in this mess," Tarent said, they would have to either climb out of the clouds, or dive out of them. He had the rare chance to decide whether he wanted speed or altitude, he picked altitude. He used his instruments to establish a slow rate of climb. A minute passed, and the F-15E broke out of the clouds and into the sun. Tarent quickly killed his climb, the fighter was just above the clouds now. He slowly scanned the sky. Nothing above, nothing behind, nothing to the left, or the right. He put the F-15E into a shallow right turn, so he could check his blind spot. It was clear. "Ramrod-Six-Two-Six to Eagle-Three-Three, is the picture clear?" Tarent asked.

"Affirmative, picture is clear." Eagle-Three-Three responded.

Tarent shook his head in disappointment, they had lost him.

"Scratch that, Ramrod-Six-Two-Six, check ahead and to your left." Micheal said quickly.

Tarent peered out of the windscreen, he didn't see anything. Then he saw it, a pair of angular dark shapes, side-by-side, emerging from the clouds. The twin tails of a MiG. The Russian-built fighter slowly climbed out of the clouds and banked to the right. Tarent raised his nose slightly, centering the MiG in his HUD. The radar established a lock quickly, that same green box centering itself over the enemy fighter. The Sidewinder came next, in the form of a tiny diamond that danced across the HUD, finally locking into the center of the box. A clear tone blared through Tarent's helmet speakers, the clear sound of victory. The MiG suddenly broke to the left, the pilot had detected his lock-on. Tarent pressed the firing button located under his thumb.

"Fox two!" Tarent called.

The Sidewinder leapt from his fighters right wingtip with a loud _whoosh_ and immediately started to track the MiG. The MiG pilot did the only thing he could: pop some flares and dive for the deck. Small, white orbs of light appeared in the MiG's wake, flares trying to fool the Sidewinder. It didn't work, the Sidewinder kept tracking, becoming a tiny speck at the tip of a winding smoke trail. Tarent inverted and dove as the MiG disappeared into the clouds again, he wanted to confirm the kill.

The clouds swallowed him up again. He watched the feet tick off of the altimeter, any second now he would emerge underneath them. He waited, holding his breath. The nose of the F-15E pierced through the clouds, now pointed at the dark blue ocean. Tarent pulled out of the dive and quickly looked around; there was nothing.

No falling pieces of metal, no sign of the enemy fighter's destruction, just the clouds and the ocean. White and blue, light and dark. This was the world of the fighter pilot, an endless expanse of stark contrast. A contrast mixed with irony; the irony that something so ugly could take place among such endless beauty. The endlessness of it all clashing with the abrupt and violent ends men met among the clouds. It was strangely primitive, despite the incredible technology that each pilot had at his fingertips.

Tarent suddenly heard a rumble, different from the constant rumble of his fighter's twin engines.

"Three O' clock," Hoser said flatly.

Tarent turned his head to look, and his eyes widened. The dark shape of the MiG was just visible in the clouds to his right. He couldn't tell whether it was heading towards him, or away. A strobing yellow flash near the Russian fighter's nose gave him the answer.

"Gun pass," Tarent grunted, banking to the right and pulling into a turn. Golden tracers reached out to his fighter, flashing past in the blink of an eye. His fighter shuddered as a single round exploded through its left wing. Another passed through his left vertical stabilizer, continuing on to burst through his left elevator. A scattering of glaringly bright red lights on his instrument panel blinked once, then remained lit. The MiG screamed past, moving from right to left in a roaring blur of grey and blue. A low, harsh emergency tone filled Tarent's helmet speakers. He punched a button and killed it, snapping his head around to track the MiG.

He reversed his bank and pulled into a climbing left turn. The MiG pilot threw his aircraft into a sharp left turn, attempting to whip around on to Tarent's tail. Tarent held his turn, his fighter's right wingtip began to brush against the clouds. A slight flick of his wrist steepened his bank, causing the climbing turn to become a descending one. Tarent glanced at the bottom of his HUD, making sure he still had Sidewinders selected.

The nose of his F-15E aligned with the MiG and he pushed the throttles foreword. He was going to need speed. The MiG completed its turn; pure gold flames appearing at the ends of its jet nozzles as the pilot activated the afterburner. Tarent held his course, rolling slowly to the left until the F-15E was standing on its left wingtip. The two fighters accelerated towards one another. Tarent hoped his strange approach would confuse the enemy pilot.

The two multi-million dollar fighters crossed noses, then continued past each other. Tarent slammed the stick to the right, held it until his fighter was level, then pulled up. The silver clouds swallowed him up once again. He held his climb for a second, then rolled to the right and pulled back. He felt the blood rush into his head as he inverted, then move back toward his legs as he started back down towards the water. Tarent prayed the MiG was where he thought it would be. Had the enemy pilot lost him when he suddenly disappeared into the clouds? The clouds parted, revealing the ocean. Tarent's eyes snapped to where he thought the MiG would be. It was there, not exactly where he thought, but it was good enough. The MiG was easy to see out over his nose as he screamed down on top of it. The radar took half a second to lock, followed by the Sidewinder missile. The clear tone sounded again.

Tarent hesitated...Was this necessary? Was it truly needed? His thumb descended closer to the firing button. What would killing this man accomplish, besides adding a fifth mark to the side of his plane? All the things you weren't supposed to think about filled Tarent's head. Did he have children? What was his name? Tarent lowered his thumb onto the button, but didn't press it. The MiG grew steadily larger in his windscreen. He realized why he needed to do this. If he let the MiG go, it might encounter and kill someone else from his squadron. People who _did_ have children, and things to look foreword to beyond the war. He would never forgive himself if that happened.

"Fox two," Tarent said, and pressed the button.

There was a tiny flash as the missile's engine activated. It separated from his fighter's left wingtip and streaked ahead, easily visible against the dark blue ocean. Tarent tracked it with his eyes, watching it make tiny adjustments to its course. The MiG broke to the right, but it was too late. The missile bored in, closing to four yards above the MiG before detonating. The metal casing surrounding the explosive charge at the missile's tip shattered into a thousand fragments, which tore into the MiG. Tarent saw chunks of metal fly off the aircraft's fuselage; half of its left vertical stabilizer tore away. Orange flame began to stream from the large holes as the MiG slid off to the right, descending toward the ocean below.

Tarent began to pull up, gauging it so he would be at the MiG's level when he leveled off. The MiG went into a slow spin as its dive steepened. _Eject...Eject._ Tarent thought. He leveled off, the MiG was on his right wing and descending fast.

It exploded in a yellow-orange fireball half a second later. Tarent flinched. The fighter's sharp, angular body disintegrated into smoking fragments, which fell towards the water like metal rain. Tarent circled the large ball of black smoke that marked the MiG-29's detonation point.

"Ramrod-Six-Two-Six to Eagle-Three-Three. Splash one, repeat, _splash one_." Tarent reported.

"Copy that Ramrod-Six-Two-Six, that's a confirmed kill. We've got a tanker waiting for you at heading one-one-nine, altitude five thousand," Micheal said happily.

There was a pause.

"Sierra Hotel," he added.


End file.
